The decorations were modern and ugly, consisting of Prussian blue material and brass, the latter mostly fretted by a key pattern. The food was good. At half-past two we found our way to the suburbs and set off for Berlin.
THE NORTH GERMAN PLAIN on that August afternoon wore an air of tranquil beauty, not usually connected with the popular visualization of its expressionless surface. Flat, and even in the golden light of sunset unavoidably grey, it exhibits all the agricultural features that make otherwise uninteresting country attractive. And the view offered by any slight rise in the land is infinite. The fields are small, with hedges; and, as it was harvest time, many were filled with corn-cocks that threw long shadows on the dry yellow stubble. Labourers, men and women, were working late into the evening, gleaning and carting. Here and there small pinewoods, perhaps surrounding an unpretentious country house, formed dark patches on the landscape. Everything seemed at right angles, the side roads to the main road, and the hedges and furrows to both. But once away from the main road, this regularity no longer prevailed.
The half-timbered, red-brick buildings of the villages and farmhouses were surmounted by immense moss-grown expanses of steep-sloping roof. Even those houses and barns that were modern had preserved this style, reminiscent of many of Durer’s etchings, particularly that of the Prodigal Son among the Swine, though Durer, in fact, came from the south. Each village contains a war memorial – or sometimes two, the first dating from 1870 – executed in the style of an advertisement for eugenics; and a parish church that has the appearance of having been designed by an architect who, though unable to draw, knew his way about a box of toy bricks.
The road, at first abominable, improved in the province of Brandenburg. Pavé and asphalt seemed to alternate, while at the side was left a ‘rotten row’ for carts, from one of which a fat wench threw an apple that hit Simon on the head, most part flanked on either side were rows of small trees, either chestnuts, elms that did not look like elms, or apples laden with fruit. These, by their continual dripping, had evidently destroyed any surface that the road might once have possessed. Every now and then a large stretch would be completely closed for repairs, which entailed either making circuitous detours by side roads, or removing barriers and blocks of stone in the face of protesting workmen. After one excursion into the countryside, which ended in a bog, the latter course seemed preferable, though even after the menders had left work there was always some officious cyclist to champion their violated rights.
At intervals couples of Wandervögel, open-necked youths with flaxen hair and khaki shirts and shorts, would wave a greeting as we passed. Some were carrying guitars. Our acquaintance with their species was destined to ripen into intimacy as we travelled further south.
Other motors were scarce. Benz, Mercedes, Austro-Daimler, and a few Italian cars, are almost the only makes to be seen in Germany. The light car is practically unknown.
After passing through Ludwigslust and Kyritz, we arrived in Spandau, an industrial suburb of Berlin, just as it was beginning to grow dark, having taken six hours to drive two hundred miles without a single stop. To David’s delight, we found ourselves upon a newly-made approach to the capital, as wide and as long as the Great West Road out of London, only more effective, inasmuch as it is perfectly straight, slopes downhill, and is for the most part flanked on either side by groups of high modern buildings, grey and rather ornamented, horrible in detail, but successful as a whole. Below us the lights of the city began to twinkle. About eight o’clock we drove through the Potsdammerplatz and up to the front door of the Esplanade Hotel, the staff of which was impressed by our arrival. Large airy rooms on the first floor, looking out through French windows on a garden courtyard and containing every comfort known to science, had been reserved by telephone from Hamburg. We dressed and went down to dinner about half-past nine, to find the restaurant at its fullest. We ate caviare as large as frog spawn and blue trout that looked like Ming pottery. Afterwards we sauntered out, and, to Simon’s disgust, walked a long distance in search of a café that did not exist. Berlin’s amusements have been censored since the immediate postwar days. Very tired we at length returned to bed – or rather to an eiderdown buttoned on all sides to a sheet.
There was little inducement to arise next morning, with a library of detective stories at hand and a Berliner Tagblatt included in the tray of breakfast. However, I was down before the others, with a view to changing some money at the Deutsche Bank.
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